


Lines in the Sand

by codewordpumpkin



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt, UST, drunk Liz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-24 13:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codewordpumpkin/pseuds/codewordpumpkin
Summary: I had originally intended for this to be a one-shot, but it ended up being a two-parter. This fic was inspired by a prompt list on Tumblr, and the second chapter is where all the prompts will be (yes, I've chosen to include about... 12 because I thought they worked well together ;))





	1. Chapter 1

Elizabeth Keen was up to something.

Raymond Reddington was afraid to know what.

It had started over two months ago, shortly after the Sutton Ross ordeal. That entire catastrophe was something that Red would have done almost anything to forget; physically, emotionally—he had hurt in more ways than one. Still, he would have endured exponentially worse if it meant he could have saved Elizabeth from enduring any pain. Remembering the way she had been restrained and beaten, her face bruised and bloody, and her normally bright blue eyes dimmed with defeat… made his heart ache with a unique pressure that only his Lizzie was capable of achieving. 

That day and for so many months prior, his relationship with Elizabeth had been strained, to say the least. Thanks to Tom—hiring that leech would forever remain one of his biggest regrets—tensions had been high and draining, leaving him with little energy to deal with her persistent questions and hostile attitude.

It certainly hadn’t helped that she had—and still did—believed him to be her father.

Regardless of how he had flirted with her since the beginning, using any and every possible opportunity to touch her, drown her in sexual innuendo, gaze and leer and admire her, utterly entranced by her volatile nature, her beauty, her strength and wit, the way she’d go from soft to hard and soft again… Despite the fact that he had practically confessed his love for her aboard a ship beneath the stars, one single sheet of paper had managed to convince her that they were biologically related.

Once, long ago in the back of an ambulance, when she had been weary and pained, confused and conflicted, she had needed someone to lash out at. Of course, he had been at her side, ready to become the perfect casualty amid her warring emotions. At that moment, all that had mattered to him was that she was alive, safe. He had slain a beast to save her—would do it again and again without hesitation.

And she had called him a monster for it.

He hadn’t denied it, but…

While he was a man capable of many things—many violent, brutal, cruel and vile things—seducing his own _daughter _was not one of them. And while he was a man who could stare Death in the face without so much as a flinch, he was absolutely terrified of what she must think of him—which was why he had been so relieved those first few days after the symbolic burning of the suitcase.

Things had finally been _good _again.

She had begun to smile—_at _him, _with _him. She had continued to chat with him on park benches, accompany him to lunches in cafes, invite him over for dinners—he had supplied the wine and take-out because… well, cooking had never really been her thing—had accepted his coddling over the slow-healing injuries she had sustained…

But then the nature of their interactions had changed, and it had occurred so gradually that he had been slow to realize it. At first, it had just been casual compliments regarding his appearance—harmless enough, surely. And although it had been under the guise of him being her father—it had made him physically ill each time she brought it up—he had accepted their situation for what it was, and he had inwardly pledged to be there for her in whatever way she needed, regardless of his foolish wants and desires.

However, her behavior in recent weeks had bordered between confusing and concerning, and he had begun to question whether he truly knew what it was that _she _wanted. It was as if they had gone back to the early days of their relationship: back when the task force had only just been formed; back when there had been no knowledge of the fulcrum; back when there hadn't been any faked deaths; back when she had taken his word for it when he had told her that _no, he wasn__’t her father_.

Only, now… their roles were reversed.

Now it was _she _who touched him, _she _who spoke with sexual undertones, _she _who… _flirted_? Was that what she was doing?… But no, _no_, that would only be possible if she knew they weren’t related—which was _impossible_ because there was no way she could have found out the truth of who he really was… _Was there?_

“Raymond.” Dembe’s soft voice drew him from his inner turmoil, and his friend's steady gaze was met in the rear-view mirror. “You wanted eyes on Elizabeth tonight.”

He and Dembe had just returned to D.C. after a short trip to Germany. While on the plane, they had heard that the team was planning on going out for Aram’s birthday. Red had made sure that dinner and drinks would be on his tab, and he had assigned a few of his people to make sure Elizabeth would make it home safely.

When Dembe didn’t say anything further, he worriedly prompted, “Has something happened?”

“The agents have parted ways, but Elizabeth has not gone home.”

Red frowned. “Well, where is she?”

“Your Bethesda apartment.”

That piqued his eyebrows almost as much as his curiosity.

“Pull up the feed, please.”

Reaching into the center console, Dembe retrieved the tablet and, after a few quick taps, passed it to him.

At first, the screen showed the apartment to be empty, and nothing seemed to have been disturbed. But before he could scrutinize further, Elizabeth herself waltzed into view. Her appearance itself had been expected, but the way she made her entrance was nothing short of shockingly surprising.

She was undressing.

From both her wobbly movements and the dangerously enticing flush in her cheeks, he could tell that, while not _plastered_, she was definitely far from sober. Still, she had already been aware of the cameras, had already known that he would watch the feeds in response to a presence other than his own—she had counted on him watching, on him listening to her threat for answers, once. Yet here she was, tossing her blazer to the ground, unbuttoning her dark blouse with clumsy fingers, allowing it to slip off her finely toned frame…

He shouldn’t be seeing this, he knew.

But being the despicable man that he was, he couldn’t look away.

In an attempt to maintain at least a facade of moral decorum, he hurriedly dialed her number before she could go any further in her drunken strip-show. She had only just popped the button on her skin-tight jeans when the ringing interrupted her. With a huff, she reached into her back pocket and retrieved her phone, squinting at the screen as she accepted the call.

Dropping into the plush cushions of his couch, she greeted, “Nick?”

She must be more inebriated than he had initially thought. “Lizzie.”

“How do you know my name?” She frowned. “Only _he_ calls me that.” 

“Lizzie,” he repeated, unsure if he should be feeling concerned or amused. “It’s me.”

“I know,” she slurred. “You’re Nick. But I didn’t order any pizza, Nick.”

“It’s Red.”

“Red?" She perked up. "What are you doing with Nick?”

Chuckling, he shook his head. “I think the more important question is, what are you doing in my apartment, sweetheart?”

“How did you know I was in your apartment?” she said after a pause, thoughtfully biting her lower lip.

“You answer first.”

“No, you.”

_Stubborn as ever._

“I’m omniscient,” he replied, humoring her.

“Oh, fuck,” she slouched down until she was completely horizontal, her free hand covering her lovely face from his view. “That’s not good.”

“What’s not good?”

“You being om-omniscient.”

He tilted his head. “Why is that not good?”

“Because,” she sighed, “if you knew what I was thinking, you would hate me.”

“I could never hate you, Lizzie,” he said softly.

“You could… and you would, so… don’t read my mind, okay? Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Exposing her face again, she sighed in relief. “Okay. Good.”

Dying to know what was going on in her head, but unwilling to take advantage of her intoxicated state, he backtracked in their conversation. “Now, will you answer my question?”

“What’s your question?” she asked, and he could detect a nervous jitter in her tone.

“Why are you at my apartment?”

“Oh.” She giggled, and the sound lightened the chronic ache in his chest. Then, as if sharing a secret, she whispered, “I’m drunk.”

“You don’t say.”

He observed the way she nodded, her expression suddenly shy. He was so enraptured with her pretty face, trying to decipher the deepened tint on her cheeks and each flutter of her lashes, that he almost forgot her state of undress. It wasn’t until she began shimmying out of her jeans, her phone pinched between her ear and shoulder, that he remembered the reason for his urgent call.

Now that her legs were bare, he could confirm that she was wearing a matching set of lingerie. The black lace stood out against her porcelain skin, and the delicate fabric conformed to her curves in an equally gentle embrace. Arms above her head and legs straight in front of her, she stretched her lean body like a cat that just woke from a nap beneath the shade. But the more relaxed she became, the more… tense he grew. Mindless of the device in each hand, he clenched his fists until his knuckles paled, mentally chastising himself for the lack of control over his own body.

“Red?” he heard her breathe out, her tone soft and uncertain.

The muscle below his eye twitched.

Despite clearing his throat, his words were barely more than a low grumble. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“You weren’t saying anything, so I thought you hung up.”

“Sorry, I,” he paused, “I was a little distracted.”

“Oh? Is this a bad time?”

“No,” he was quick to reassure, “No, I’m the one who called you, remember?”

She nodded. “Right. Are you still with Nick?”

“No.” He quietly chuckled, thankful for the reprieve from his one-sided conflict. “No, I’m not.”

They were both silent for a few moments, not knowing what to say next, each waiting for the other to speak first.

“We missed you tonight,” she blurted.

“We?” He smirked. “Although Agent Mojtabai has warmed up to me considerably more than our dear Donald, I believe we are not yet at the stage of getting drunk together.”

“Well…” Turning to her side, she brought her knees to her chest and hugged a pillow. “_I_ missed you tonight.”

Flustered with her mumbled admission, he changed the subject. “I do so hope you all made good use of my tab,” he said lightly. “Tell me, what is everyone like when under the influence of an endless supply of free drinks?”

“I couldn’t really tell if Samar was drunk or not, but Aram was cross-eyed by the time they left together,” she said, grinning. Curiously, she bit her lip again and ducked her chin. “And Ressler…”

“Yes?” he prompted. “Did Agent Ressler slip on more banana peels?”

“Ressler… Ressler became super flirty.”

The strange expression on her face unsettled him. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “he was hitting on me all night. And then—”

She cut herself off.

He quirked a brow, jaw tight.

“He…” he supplied, hoping she would continue.

“He kissed me.”

There was that twitch again.

Lest he crack the teeth he had amazingly preserved throughout his life of violence, he did his best to relax his tight jaw. “Did he.”

She must have sensed the danger in his tone, because she hurriedly mumbled, “I didn’t kiss him back, though.” When he offered no response, she added, “I don’t think of him that way. He’s like a brother.”

Clearly, Donald didn’t think of her as a sister.

His temples began to throb. “Lizzie,” he sighed, “you don’t have to explain your dating life to me.”

“Don’t I?” Her voice trembling, she mumbled, “Aren’t fathers supposed to be interested in who their daughters date?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he attempted to breathe through the suffocating pain radiating from the part of him she unknowingly controlled. Unable to go through this line of conversation any further, he quickly snuffed it out.

“I have to go, but feel free to stay the night.”

“Wait!” she yelped before he could hang up. “Will you… Can we have breakfast together?”

“I’ll be there by nine. Sleep well, Lizzie.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning. Breakfast? Confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally lied (unintentionally) when I said I'd be including 12 prompts here. It's 10 (the story went a little differently, so 2 of them no longer felt right). I bolded the prompts used.
> 
> Also! I changed the rating from T to M. Personally, I think this is more of a maybe strong T, but I'd rather play it safe and not risk offending anyone!

He wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there, taking turns between glaring at his front door and studying his scuff-free shoes, but it was certainly past the promised time of nine o’clock. Elizabeth hadn’t contacted him yet this morning, though, so hopefully that meant she was either unaware of or didn’t mind his uncharacteristic tardiness.

With a heavy sigh that seemed to have come from the pit of his soul, he took one last moment to mentally prepare himself—for what, he couldn’t say—before going inside.

It was quiet—that was the first thing he noted.

The second thing he noticed was that Elizabeth was not sprawled on his couch as she had been last night—a fact that he was immensely grateful for, as even his best poker-face wouldn’t have been able to hide his reaction to seeing her dressed in nothing but lingerie. A quick glance around told him she wasn’t in the kitchen, either. Since he hadn’t received word that she had left, the only place she could be was in his bedroom.

With a light knock on the door, he called out, “Lizzie?”

When there was no answer, he tried again, only to be met with further silence.

_Was she still asleep?_

With a slight frown on his face, he slowly creaked the door open—and couldn’t help but smile at the sight that greeted him. Quietly approaching the huddled lump on his bed, he gently tapped what he assumed was her shoulder.

“Lizzie,” he said for the third time in as many minutes, this time with a gentle shake.

Movement was followed by a muffled groan.

He was feeling a little more relaxed than he had been a short while ago, so he was not prepared in the slightest when she suddenly sat up, the blankets sliding down to reveal her completely bare form. Struck dumb, he could do nothing but stare, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets, his jaw slack and mouth agape.

“Red?” she spoke, rubbing her eyes and blinking at him as if nothing was amiss.

Gulping, he finally had enough sense to turn around.

“Elizabeth,” he croaked, glad she was unable to see his tell-tale twitch. “**Is there a reason you****’re naked in my bed?**”

She didn’t immediately reply, but just as he was beginning to wonder if she had perhaps not heard him through the gravel in his words, she chuckled. “**Well, this is awkward.**” 

_Awkward? _

No, what was awkward was the flush on his neck and the heat in his ears that refused to disappear like he so wished he could do, himself. The only saving grace in this situation was that she was unable to witness the immediate betrayal of his body.

He cleared his throat.

“You said I could stay the night?”

“Yes, but I didn’t imagine you would be—”

“Yeah, I have a habit of taking my clothes off when drunk and alone.”

“… I see,” he muttered lowly, nodding stupidly. 

She sighed. “Sorry, Red. I know how uncomfortable you must be right now.” _Uncomfortable was an underst—_ “After all, no father wants to see his fully grown daughter naked.”

_Oh, for God__’s sake_.

He couldn’t do this again, not right now, not with her on his bed in nothing but his sheets, not with his body warring with his mind, his heart.

“I apologize, Elizabeth,” he forced himself to speak. “I seem to have forgotten about my morning meeting with an associate. I must be on my way, but… I’ve brought bagels.” It wasn’t until he mentioned them that he remembered the warm, paper-bag hanging at his side. “I’ll leave them on the kitchen table.”

He was just about to leave with his head down and eyes averted, when the sound of rustling fabric was followed by a set of arms wrapping around his waist.

“Stop,” she snapped, her harsh tone and firm grip contrasting with the softness of her curves pressing into his back. Even through his layers of fabric, he could feel her heat begin to ease the chill in his soul. “Stop running away. Stop pretending… Just stop.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, struggling to breathe.

“We both know you’re not my father, so stop pretending you are.”

She had known just what to say to get a reaction out of him.

Momentarily forgetting about her exposed body, he whirled around in a rush of anger.

“I never pretended to be your father, Elizabeth,” he growled, just short of baring his teeth. “But now I know that’s exactly what _you__’ve_ been doing. Tell me, how long has this charade of yours been going on? Since the beginning? Was dear Tom in on it, too?”

If he thought she was going to back down, he was wrong.

“You didn’t deny the DNA test. What was I supposed to believe?”

“Me!” he barked, unable to help himself. “You were supposed to believe _me _when I told you, time after time, that we were in no way biologically related.”

She shook her head, frustration wetting her lashes. “Then, why didn’t you say anything when I showed you the test?”

He bit the inside of his cheek. “_You know why_.”

“**You lied to me.**”

“That’s not true,” he said, suddenly drained to his bones.

“You did. You let me believe I was…” She looked away, her voice low when she continued, “You let me believe I was attracted to my own father. Do you even realize how messed up that is?”

“About as messed up as a father being attracted to his own daughter, I’d imagine,” he said dryly.

When she returned her gaze, it was steady. Almost defiant. “But that’s not what either of us are, is it?”

“… No,” he breathed, shoulders slumping. “No, it’s not.”

“**I wish I could hate you.**”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

Fortunately, she saved him from saying anything at all.

“But I can’t because…” Lightly sliding her hand down his chest, she began fidgeting with the end of his tie. “Because **I think I****’m in love with you and I’m terrified.**”

Okay, _now _he didn’t know what to say—which was exactly what he told her.

“You don’t have to say anything. Not yet. Not now.” Tightening her hold on his tie, she pulled until they were on eye-level, their faces mere inches apart. “**Kiss me**.”

He would have fallen on his ass if it weren’t for her strong grip keeping him in place.

Tipping his head back as far he could without breaking his neck, he said, “**I think we need to talk**.”

“**I****’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice**.”

It was bait, he knew, and yet he couldn’t resist…

“… And how do I look at you?”

He was surprised he had managed to not choke on all the gravel in his throat.

She tilted her head to the side, and he wondered if she had picked up the mannerism from him. He quickly became distracted, though, when he noticed the subtle action had caused her dark, tousled locks to brush the smooth canvas of her chest. Whether from that tantalizing sensation or from his blatant ogling, he didn’t know, but the rosy buds of her breasts peaked and hardened in a matter of seconds, and he could see each of her quickened breaths. His fingers twitched with the instinct to reach out and touch her—to feel for himself how soft her skin was, to test how well she fit in his large, calloused palms, to check if her heart was beating as fast as the roaring pulse in his ears…

“Kind of how you’re looking at me right now.”

His eyes snapped back up to meet hers, not needing a mirror to know that his pupils were as dilated as the ones staring back at him. _God_, his entire body was on fire. _Was her flesh as hot as his? Was her blood rushing down, low, in the same direction his was? _

He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed when she released her grasp on his tie. But before he could will the blood back to his brain, before he could do the right thing and leave, _run_, as far and fast as he was physically able, she brought her hand to the back of his neck, tugging him back to where she wanted him. It was impossible to stop the shudder that wracked through him when her fingers dipped beneath his shirt collar, lovingly caressing the mottled flesh of his back as if it weren’t a revolting, permanent reminder of pain and loss and tragedy.

“Is this how you looked when you watched me last night?”

So, she had known, and yet…

“_Lizzie_,” he breathed, sounding as shaky and unstable as he felt. “**Please, don****’t do this**.”

“Kiss me,” she said again, ignoring his desperate plea. Teasingly grazing her lips against his, she whispered against his mouth, “**Just once.**”

He vaguely registered the dull thud of the bagels dropping to the floor, but it was dismissed in the next instant when he surrendered to the woman in his arms. Everything he thought, everything he felt… was Elizabeth. Nothing existed outside the two of them.

In the rare moments he had allowed himself to hope and dream, to relish the foolishness of a man in love, he had imagined what their first kiss might be like—but this wasn’t it. This was rough and wild, a clash of teeth and tongue that was almost clumsy in its frenzy.

His hands were tangled in her hair and imprinted on her waist, his fingertips settling in the grooves of her spine. Her nails were raking down his scalp and tearing into clothes, bunching fistfuls of fabric and refusing to let go. Their bodies were pushed up against each other, molding together with an instinctual fluency that could only be borne from fate; a meeting of hard and soft that was as comforting as it was arousing. It was all so much—_too_ much—and the need for air was making itself known.

Gradually, reluctantly, their movements went from passionate to sensual. They no longer bit, but savored; no longer clawed, but stroked. They kept their eyes closed as they waited for their breaths to even, for their hearts to calm. Finally, when their blood cooled to a steaming simmer, they dared to peek at their new reality, strangely feeling unsure but certain, afraid yet excited.

He had warned her, once, of drawing lines in the sand—how, with a breath of air, they disappeared. Of course, he had been right. But it was not a mere _breath_ that had passed between them. A tornado had blasted through this room, obliterating defenses and exposing vulnerabilities, bringing the foundations they had built to irreversible ruin.

“Lizzie—”

“Shh,” she cut him off with a sweet peck to his parted lips, “I told you, you don’t have to say anything.”

Of course, she had been right.

_Not yet. Not now._

They had time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Now I'm off to bury myself in blankets and hibernate for the next three months. But feel free to notify me of when Katarina Rostova returns to being an underground myth (Also feel free to let me know what you thought of this fic). 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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